


hang me in a bottle

by patho (ghostsoldier)



Category: Dishonored (Video Game)
Genre: Alcohol, Angst, Breathplay, Choking, M/M, Mildly Dubious Consent, pre-game
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-12-16
Updated: 2012-12-16
Packaged: 2017-11-21 05:51:23
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,058
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/594170
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ghostsoldier/pseuds/patho
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In which Farley Havelock and Treavor Pendleton drink far too much and make deeply questionable decisions, and they both have some really weird issues when it comes to sex.</p>
            </blockquote>





	hang me in a bottle

**Author's Note:**

> I started writing this mostly to see if I could, and then it took a screaming left turn into HOLY SHIT DISHONORED FANDOM I’M REALLY SORRY. 
> 
> I am really, sincerely sorry.
> 
> Title is from a Tom Waits song. Please heed the warnings on this one.

Treavor is drunk.

In and of itself, this isn’t particularly unusual. With the state of the Empire these days, intoxication is far preferable to sobriety and he suspects he’s not the only one to sneak a flask or two into the Parliamentary meetings. Custis and Morgan alone usually make him wish he’d snuck in a whole bottle, and anytime one of the little Boyle wasps opens her mouth, well…

Bleary, bad-tempered drunkenness is just the usual state of affairs for him as late. It’s unfortunate for Wallace, no doubt, seeing as he’s the one who has to clean up Treavor’s messes, but honestly…like the man’s going to begrudge him a little wine now and then. These are dark times. A man’s got to survive however he best sees fit.

Tonight, though. This isn’t the usual drunkenness. For the first time in the past few months he has something to drink to rather than about, and this man Havelock – an Admiral! – seems a good sort. Solid. Solid in…a lot of ways, really, although he looks rather bemused when Treavor awkwardly pats him on the shoulder and says as much. The third arm of their little trifecta is tragically absent for the time being – some unpleasantness involving witches, and Treavor doesn’t want to know – but while it limits the amount of strategy they can discuss it means more drink for the both of them.

He thinks Havelock might be a little drunk too. Men like him, it’s difficult to tell. In Treavor’s experience, intoxication either makes them quiet or argumentative, and Havelock already seems like a bit of a quiet sort. He decides not to worry about it.

“Wallace!” he yells.

Wallace appears in the doorway, quiet and unassuming and expectant as usual. Treavor grins. Good old Wallace. Solid, dependable Wallace. 

“Wallace, bring us another bottle of the – the, ah…” Treavor squints at the sideboard, trying to make sense of the bottle labels swimming in his vision. “The…dammit, man, you know the one.”

A tiny spasm, there and gone in an instant, crosses Wallace’s familiar features. “My lord,” he says slowly, “you and the Admiral have imbibed a number of different wines so far tonight. If you had a preference, I would be happy to—“

“The fizzy one was good,” Havelock rumbles from the armchair opposite Treavor. “Bring us another bottle of that.”

“Very good, sir,” Wallace says, and disappears from the doorway.

Treavor glares. “I’ll have you know,” he says archly, proud that he only slurs a little, “that the ‘fizzy one,’ as you so eloquently put it, is actually a rare effervescent from the Serkonan highlands. The grapes are picked and crushed by only the most beautiful virgin women in the Cullero region, and with the blockade in place the bottles in my cellar are probably the only ones left in Dunwall.” He pauses, and adds with no small amount of satisfaction, “It happens to be very expensive.”

Havelock snorts. “Bullshit.”

“No, it is, I assure you. I distinctly recall the numbers on the invoice when the shipment arrived.”

“Not the price, you idiot. That daft nonsense about the virgins.”

“It’s not nonsense,” Treavor insists, although it is odd now that he thinks about it, because don’t they only do harvesting and pressing once a year? That leaves the rest of the year unaccounted for, and while he’s a bit fuzzy on what exactly beautiful virgin grape harvesters do for gainful employment once the harvest is over, he doubts it involves staying a virgin for very long. For all he knows, the wine Wallace is currently uncorking was pressed beneath the tender feet of big mustachioed farmhands.

Oh well. It’s still delicious.

They go through one more bottle of the Cullero effervescent and half a bottle of (rather unremarkable) Tyvian red before Havelock declares they’re switching to liquor. Treavor prefers wine, but he’s not going to argue; Morgan and Custis are generally the ones responsible for bringing harder spirits into the manor and they have very expensive taste, and Treavor is positively gleeful about using his brothers’ ill-gotten gains to toast the Empire and their grand scheme to seize control from the treacherous Lord Regent. 

Havelock actually laughs when Treavor tells him this, a deep belly laugh that makes him look about ten years younger.

“I’ll drink to that,” Havelock says, and then they do, and then they drink some more, and Treavor feels _wonderful_.

They talk strategy less and less as the evening winds on, partly in deference to Martin’s absence and partly because Havelock doesn’t trust the manor staff. Treavor has reassured him several times over that Wallace is a trustworthy sort, and that when they move on to the next phase of the plan Wallace will most assuredly be accompanying him, but Havelock gives him a sour look and Treavor supposes he’s unconvinced about the rest of the staff. Perhaps with good reason. Morgan and Custis may be gone for the next several nights, but they have nasty little eyes and ears everywhere.

Instead of strategy, their talk turns towards the Empire. What it used to be, what it could become. Whatever he was earlier, Havelock is definitely drunk now – he’s enunciating much too carefully and his cheeks have gone ruddy, and Treavor couldn’t help but stare when he’d stripped out of his heavy coat and down to his waistcoat and shirtsleeves, because…well. Havelock is quite the impressive triangle of a man.

There’s probably a better way to word it, but he thinks that was at least a bottle of wine ago.

“That little girl,” Havelock’s saying. He gestures with his drink, whiskey sloshing up the side of the glass. He narrowly avoids spilling, and Treavor’s relieved on behalf of the rug. “That little girl is the key to everything.”

“To the Empire, perhaps,” Treavor says, “but the Lord Protector is the key to her.”

He tries not to think about what will happen if that part of their plan falls through. Without Corvo…

Treavor raises his hand to knock back the rest of his own whiskey and finds himself staring blearily into the empty bottom of the glass. Oh. Unfortunate.

Even more unfortunate: the decanter is over on the sideboard near Havelock, which means he has to get up. A bit of a pickle, really, since he’s not entirely sure how his legs are supposed to work.

He considers calling for Wallace, and then just as quickly dismisses the idea. Treavor Pendleton is a grown man, dammit. He can get his own fucking whiskey.

Havelock is watching him struggle with an odd expression on his face. On any other man Treavor would say it was an expression of amusement, but Havelock’s something of a severe fellow and unless he’s outright laughing Treavor just can’t be sure.

“Problems?” Havelock says drily after Treavor barks his shin on the leg of the chaise longue and almost falls over.

Treavor politely invites him to perform several sex acts known only to Tyvian whores and that girl at the Cat with the lazy eye, and Havelock throws back his head and laughs and laughs and _laughs_ , and…that certainly answers the question re: Havelock’s amusement, doesn’t it? Treavor fights down his own smile – it doesn’t do for someone of his station to laugh at his own expense, after all – and unstoppers the decanter. He’s terribly proud of himself for getting the whiskey in the glass on the second try.

Behind him, Havelock sighs, still chuckling. “By the Void,” he says. His voice is low and rough and amused. “That felt good. It feels like I haven’t laughed like that since the Empress died.” 

Treavor’s smile falls and he fumbles with the glass stopper, which clatters into the sideboard and comes to rest in a little amber puddle of Old Dunwall. He doesn’t know if Havelock knew the Empress, but he had. Sort of. She’d been very nice to him the few times they met. State dinners and the like. Parliament sessions.

He’d liked her.

Havelock’s armchair creaks and then the man himself is behind him, enveloping Treavor in the smell of booze and wool and the cigars they’d smoked earlier. The hand that comes to rest on his shoulder is big and warm, strangely comforting, and hardly anyone touches Treavor like this anymore. Wallace, mostly, but even then it’s usually in the course of his duties. Treavor leans back into the touch and is absurdly pleased when Havelock doesn’t move away.

“She was a good woman,” Havelock says. Slowly and carefully fitting his mouth around the shape of each word. “We’ll do right by her legacy.”

Treavor shivers, because when Havelock puts it that way it’s a _lot of responsibility_ and he can’t help but think on how tiny their cabal is, how terribly fragile its bonds.

Bonds.

Bonding.

…Havelock is very warm.

“We should go to the Cat,” Treavor announces. 

Havelock goes still. “I beg your pardon?”

“The Golden Cat!” Treavor half-turns and beams up at him. Havelock looks distinctly unimpressed. “Move the celebration to a more entertaining locale, if you will. There’s a girl there, Sofia, she can do the most delightful things with her…and Wallace would be more than happy to take us. Wallace. Wallace!”

He yelps when the hand on his shoulder tightens and Havelock’s other hand clamps over his mouth. They’re standing in such a way that he can’t twist around to glare properly at the man behind him, but he gives it his best effort. Unfortunately, it doesn’t seem to be exerting the effect he’d like: Havelock just blinks down at him, frowning and impassive, and finally says, “That’s not a good idea.”

Treavor says, “Mrrph.”

“Because I don't want to,” Havelock replies, more irritated now, and Treavor hadn’t actually answered him but he supposes this sort of one-sided conversation works too. He considers elbowing Havelock in the ribs, but decides it’s not worth the inevitable beating that will follow. Treavor is many things but a skilled pugilist is not one of them, and Havelock’s so big he might as well be a whale. There is, Treavor tells himself, no shame in acknowledging the advantages of an opponent and then choosing to absent oneself from combat.

Havelock still hasn’t let him go. 

Maybe he forgot.

When he was younger and the twins’ usual target, Treavor generally dealt with this sort of thing by biting. It wasn’t honorable in the least, even as a youngster he knew that, but there are only so many ways to fight back against someone bigger than you and Treavor’s teeth were as a good a weapon as any. Somehow, though, he suspects that won’t work with Havelock.

He decides to use his tongue instead.

Havelock sucks in a startled breath as Treavor tongues the creases of his palm. His skin tastes of salt and whiskey and smoke, and it’s actually kind of…enjoyable, he wouldn’t have expected that, you don’t think of a person’s hands as being—

Havelock jerks his hand away and a little noise of protest slips out before Treavor can stifle it. However, Havelock doesn’t go far; their bodies are still flush, and the breathing in his ear is markedly more ragged than it was a moment ago.

“ _Why_ ,” Havelock grinds out. Pure, irritated bafflement, barely even a question.

And there are a lot of ways Treavor could answer – he’s got a clever tongue, after all, it’s won battles and started wars and a moment ago it was unmanning a former Admiral – but when he opens his mouth all that comes out is an honest, “I don’t know,” and that’s when he begins to worry a bit, because he must be much drunker than he thought.

Havelock doesn’t say anything, just…looms, and he’s very good at looming, he could probably pursue it as a career if they all fail horribly and the Admiral thing doesn’t work out, and to take his mind off Havelock’s general…Havelock-ness and the fact that he sort of wants to taste him again Treavor babbles something about the girls making house calls if there was enough money in it. Madame Prudence hasn’t been at the Cat long, but in his experience she wouldn’t turn down ten coin if the name behind it was solid, and Pendleton is about as solid as they come these days, he could send Wallace and—

“No,” Havelock says.

Treavor wants to punch him.

“Why not?” he says peevishly.

“Do you really think,” Havelock says, right in Treavor’s ear, “that fucking a prostitute is a good idea right now? The things we’re planning are _treason_ , we have no idea who we can and can’t trust, and you just want to—“ He snorts, derision thick in his voice. “Outsider’s eyes, Pendleton. Get it together.”

Treavor’s throat goes tight and he twists away, fury and humiliation washing over him in a hot, ugly wave. Havelock doesn’t think he takes this seriously, is that it? That he’s just some pampered little noble, frittering away his time and money without any care for the things that actually matter?

“Fuck you,” he spits, and positively relishes the look of surprise on Havelock’s face. “You have no idea what I’m risking in order to bring this plan to fruition. If it weren’t for me, you’d still be whiling away your days at the pub, lamenting the loss of your commission and wishing you hadn’t told the Lord Regent where he could shove it.”

Havelock’s eyes narrow. “Careful, Pendleton.”

“Or what?” Treavor grabs the nearest glass, half-full with the Outsider knows what, and knocks it back in one gulp. He’s had so much to drink tonight that the taste barely registers; the burn of it going down hits him a little harder, and he bares his teeth in something that might’ve been a grin once but isn’t anymore. “What are you going to do, Havelock? Leave?” 

He laughs, meanly, knowing he should stop and yet utterly unable to. “A little too late for that now, isn’t it? Besides, who are you to tell me how I can and can’t spend my time? Is it because you haven’t fucked a woman in so long that you’ve forgotten how? Or perhaps being in the Navy _warped your sensibilities_. Too many little cabin boys and their quivering thighs—“

He knows, the second it comes out of his mouth, that he’s taken it too far. He’s against the wall with a hand around his throat faster than he can draw breath to apologize, and Havelock’s expression is deeply, scarily flat. He doesn’t look drunk anymore; he looks _murderous_.

“Given that we’re committing treason together,” Havelock says, “I’d hoped we might be able to think of each other as friends.”

He doesn’t sound particularly friendly. He sounds, in fact, as though he’d like nothing more than to rip Treavor limb from limb and then beat him to death with his own arm, and Treavor…can’t breathe.

He stares wide-eyed at Havelock, tries to ignore the little panic-animal beginning to claw at the edges of his awareness.

“I like you, Pendleton,” Havelock says, and Treavor would laugh at the incongruity of the statement except he _can’t breathe_. There’s something calculated in the way Havelock’s thumb is pressed to the soft place below his jaw, and he’s still enunciating much too carefully. Treavor is never drinking with this man again. “You’re not so bad for a noble, although you could use a refresher on manners.”

Treavor makes an urgent, strangled noise and pushes up on his toes, inadvertently arching against Havelock as he does so. There are big red and black flowers blooming in his vision and he feels dizzy from more than just alcohol ( _this isn’t the first time he’s been like this_ ); when the sense memory hits, it’s like a blow to the head.

_—once upon a time she’d been a favorite of Morgan’s, a sloe-eyed girl with red lips and slightly crooked teeth and burn scars on her arms. He’d been younger then, horribly disturbed at the thought of sleeping with one of his older brother’s castoffs, but there hadn’t been anyone else and he’d already paid and really, they’d all been to the Cat often enough that it probably wasn’t the first time. So he’d asked, “What is it you’re good at, then?” and she’d smiled at that, slow and easy, careful not to show her teeth._

_“Breath,” she’d said. He hadn’t caught on immediately – judging from that accent she was just off the boat from the northern reaches of Tyvia, and of course he’d gotten a whore who could barely communicate – but by the Void, he’d understood relatively quickly after that. For days afterward, air had tasted unbearably sweet, and it was at least a week before he could look at a mask or a leather belt without going shivery and hard._

Havelock lets him drop. He doesn’t look angry anymore. He looks…well, he looks like how Treavor feels, which is confused and irritated and much too drunk, and that would be perfectly fine if not for the bewildered arousal that’s crept in alongside everything else.

“You…” Havelock says, and clears his throat. He’s not a man of words, Farley Havelock. If he were feeling more charitable Treavor might take pity on him and sweep in with some clever conversational riposte to save the day, smooth all this awkwardness over so they can get back to the serious business of saving the Empire.

Treavor does not feel charitable. 

What he feels is fragile and snappish. A terrible part of him wants Havelock to put his hand back around his throat, and he may be drunk but he’s not too drunk to know how very _not okay_ that is. So he straightens, pulls the ragged scraps of his dignity around him like the finest tailored coat, stares Havelock down like they’re two rivals arguing in Parliament rather than unlikely allies who have just barely gotten to know each other.

“I…what?” he says, but Havelock just frowns like Treavor is a puzzle box he hasn’t figured out yet. Instead of saying anything, he just raises his hand, rests his palm on the column of Treavor’s neck and then, very carefully, _presses_.

The hour is late enough that the manor around them is mostly quiet, and Treavor’s gasp sounds horribly loud in the stillness. He has the absurd image of Wallace bursting into the room in a panicked tizzy, wanting to make sure Treavor is okay, that he isn’t bleeding out on the rug or something ridiculous like that, but the thought is more awful than amusing. He doesn’t want Wallace to see him like this. His fine trousers tented and Havelock’s careful hand pressed against his windpipe, his too-wide eyes, the curl of his fingers against the wallpaper. The damning curve of his body towards Havelock rather than away from him.

He wants—

There are no words for the things he wants. Not respectable ones, anyhow.

Treavor’s entire body feels tight and confused, and Havelock’s still just looking at him. The expression in those shadowed eyes is a strange one, an odd mix of puzzled heat and disgust, like he’s not sure which of them he’s more horrified by. But he has yet to move away, and after a moment his jaw clenches and he seems to come to some sort of decision.

“Tell me,” he says roughly, “if I need to stop,” and before Treavor can snap out a reply the hand around his neck goes tight again he can’t—

Fuck.

 _Fuck_.

He’s not sure how long it lasts, because he’s trembling all over and his vision is gray and sparkling around the edges by the time Havelock’s grip loosens, and his first gasp of air is harsh and loud and tastes agonizingly good. He breathes again, and again, much too fast; his body’s desperate for air and the room is spinning and he’s not _ready_ when Havelock pins Treavor’s hips to the wall with his own and squeezes again. The sound he makes is half-panic, half-sheer stupid lust.

“Too much?” Havelock says, and Treavor claws at his wrist but shakes his head no and he can’t stop _moving_ , rubbing against Havelock in helpless little twitches and he can’t breathe he can’t breathe he can’t _breathe_ —

Havelock releases him, and Treavor moans, low and shameless. “Again,” he rasps.

“No,” Havelock says. He’s studying Treavor carefully, a hint of uncertainty in his expression. “I don’t want to kill you, Pendleton.”

“You won’t,” Treavor says, “trust me,” and something in his grin makes Havelock recoil but apparently not even that’s enough to make him stop because he still puts his hand back and then Treavor’s digging his fingers into Havelock’s thick forearm, arching, black and red and gray creeping in and his eyes are rolling back and the sounds he’s making are desperate and he, and—

“Wait,” he croaks, horrified, because he can feel the inevitable rising in him like a wave and he doesn’t want to, not yet, not like this, “Havelock, wait, _stop_ — “

And Havelock jerks his hand back but it’s already too late, much too late. Treavor jerks against him, shuddering, awash in humiliation and terrible pleasure. He doesn’t want Havelock touching him anymore; he doesn’t even want Havelock looking at him, but Havelock doesn’t move. He just stands there, hand resting lightly on Treavor’s chest, breath coming just a hair too quickly and a bit too harsh, and belatedly Treavor realizes that he’s still holding onto Havelock’s arm. All but bracing himself on it, really, and isn’t _that_ just wonderful?

Finally, Havelock says, “Did you really just…”

“ _Shut up_ ,” Treavor spits, because they’re not going to have this conversation, not now and not ever. His throat hurts, and he’s horrified by the thought of what his neck must look like right now. He bruises easily, all Pendletons do, and Treavor’s always been more fragile than his brothers and how they’d loved that when he was younger, how easy it was to bruise him. Wallace could always tell when—

Treavor blanches, horrified anew. How on earth is he going to explain this to Wallace?

Havelock makes an irritated noise and shifts slightly, and Treavor is suddenly aware of hardness pressed into the hollow of his hip, thick and hot and utterly bewildering. 

“Havelock,” he says, a bit uncertainly, “you appear to be…ah,” and Havelock looks at him like he’s an absolute idiot.

“What exactly did you think we were doing?” he says. When Treavor opens his mouth, he just shakes his head and his expression is making Treavor nervous: he looks like he wants to shove Treavor face-first into the wall, but to what exact end he’s a little less sure.

Havelock is…a man of substantial proportions. Treavor’s just sober enough that this is deeply unnerving.

“Well I don’t know what you expect me to do about it,” he snaps, and it turns out that this is the exact wrong thing to say. Apparently, Havelock has a very good idea of what he expects Treavor to do.

“On your knees,” Havelock says. His voice is rough, and he snorts when Treavor hesitates. “You’ve been running your mouth all night, Pendleton. Might as well put it to good use.” 

Face burning, Treavor slides to his knees and fumbles with the buttons on Havelock’s trousers. It’s not that he minds using his mouth (except he does, actually, he minds a lot, but he doesn’t feel right about protesting since his side of the party ended a bit early, and at Havelock’s expense no less) but having to kneel like this makes it worse. It’s emasculating, is what it is, and they both know it, and that means Havelock is doing it on purpose, putting Treavor in his place like he’s some sort of, some—

Havelock groans above him and braces one arm against the wall, slides his other hand into Treavor’s hair to grip just a little too hard. Treavor makes a muffled noise of protest and the fingers loosen slightly.

This is.

This is actually happening.

Treavor has no idea what to do with his hands. He vaguely recalls the girls at the Cat using their hands at the same time as their mouths, clever fingers and wet suction, but it seems like that would require far more coordination than he has at the moment and besides, Havelock seems determined to set the pace. It would probably just end badly if Treavor tried to be more proactive. He’s barely keeping up as it is, and it’s not…

It’s _unpleasant_. His jaw is uncomfortable, and the weight on his tongue is strange and unfamiliar, and he must look absolutely ridiculous right now, eyes watering and mouth stretched wide, hands curled uncertainly over Havelock’s hips. Why anyone would do this voluntarily is completely beyond him, and hopefully Havelock will just hurry up and get it over with—

“Ngh,” Havelock grunts, driving forward just a little too fast, and Treavor chokes, shivering at the sudden heat pooling low in his belly. It’s much too soon for him to get hard again but his body gives an interested little twitch all the same, and in that moment he hates himself more than he ever has in his entire life.

They find a rhythm. Treavor didn’t think they would but they do, and this bothers him more than if they’d just continued blundering ineptly along, because what does that say about _him_? Havelock says things like, “yes,” and “good,” and “watch the teeth,” but mostly he just makes low, bitten-off noises of grudging encouragement and it’s a good thing Treavor needs both hands to steady himself against Havelock’s increasingly ragged movements because—

Because otherwise he’d be reaching down to touch himself in spite of the mess already in his trousers, in spite of the fact that it’s still too early for him to be anything but half-hard, and so instead he just breathes harshly through his nose and does his best to ignore the way the taste is getting sharper, Havelock’s fingers tightening in his hair and his body a hard, angry curve above him.

“Off,” Havelock grits suddenly, “off, get off, I’m going to—“ and then Treavor’s choking, thick salt-bitter fluid in his mouth. The smell in the air is alkaline, familiar, and one of his hands starts to drift down before he remembers himself and jerks it back up again.

Havelocks stands braced against the wall for a moment longer, eyes closed and mouth open, and then he shakes himself and straightens, sets himself to rights before reaching down to help Treavor to his feet. Treavor’s knees immediately protest. Both his jaw and his throat are sore, and his clothes are a wreck.

He sullenly accepts the handkerchief Havelock offers. 

It doesn’t help in the least.

“Wallace has probably gone to bed by now,” he says, after he’s both begun and abandoned his attempt at restoring his dignity, “but it would be easy enough to wake him so you can take a carriage back to your lodging. We also have a number of guest beds, although some of the rooms in the east wing haven’t been aired in far too long and—“

His voice is shaking, badly so, and there’s something like concern creeping into the severe lines of Havelock’s face.

“Pendleton,” he says slowly, and Treavor flinches backward and holds up a hand.

“I would really rather you didn’t,” he says. “We don’t…it’s not a thing that requires discussion.” It’s awful, just awful, how wrecked his voice is, raw and scratchy and hollow. And with the bruising he’s going to need high collars or cravats, something, and it’s really not the right time of year for that sort of thing and he’s going to look like an absolute idiot. “We merely, ah, over-imbibed. It happens to the best of men.”

He feels strangely adrift, like his skin is too tight, like nothing is the right color anymore. There’s genuine concern in Havelock’s eyes now, and this isn’t something Treavor feels in any way equipped to manage. He wants to go upstairs and strip out of his ruined clothes. He wants to drink until he can’t taste Havelock in his mouth, work himself into a second, joyless orgasm to erase the feel of Havelock’s hand around his throat. Treavor Pendleton is many things but stupid is not one of them: this is something they never should have done, and it’s better off forgotten.

“You’re sure,” Havelock says, and Treavor flaps his hands and puts on his best grin and says, “Yes, yes, of course.” Judging from the raised eyebrow he gets in return, Havelock doesn’t buy it in the least, but Treavor really doesn’t care.

“It’s probably best we let your man sleep,” Havelock says finally, which…is good sense, now that Treavor thinks about it, he’d probably have questions they don’t have good answers for and he and Havelock are both still a bit drunk.

“The west wing is probably your best choice, then,” Treavor says. He’s unaccountably relieved that his voice is getting steadier by the moment. “The first room on the right has the best view of the gardens, not that you’ll need it at this hour. And I’ll put in instructions for the cook to whip up a hangover remedy in the morning. I suspect we’ll both need it.”

But still Havelock hesitates, and…Treavor can’t handle this anymore, he can’t, and for a moment he lets the mask fall away and it’s with nothing but utter and honest desperation that he says, “Havelock, _please_. Just go to bed.”

And Havelock looks at him. For a moment, Treavor thinks he’s not going to let it drop and he’s not sure if that’s a good thing or too terrible for words, but all Havelock says is, “All right,” and then, far more uncomfortably, “Sleep well,” and then Treavor’s alone for the first time all night.

It takes him four tries to get the whiskey into the tumbler, and he hates the way the decanter chatters against the lip of the glass and betrays his unsteady hands. When he tries to pour himself a second glass and spills everywhere, he gives up and just takes the whole damn bottle upstairs.

They don't talk about it.


End file.
